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asking about legends only scholars—and damn few of them—have even heard of."
    "I guess I neglected to mention that my interest was personal and my knowledge firsthand."
    "Yeah, but he sensed something, a feeling that you were speaking from experience. He wants to know if you ever found the Lilitongue or the Compendium ."
    Jack knew Abe was the soul of discretion, but Buhmann was one of his revered professors from college. He might have said more than he should have.
    "What did you tell him?"
    Abe shrugged. "What else? I said I'd ask."
    Jack's small lift of relief annoyed him. Should have known better. But the last thing he needed was a bunch of academics sniffing around, looking for him and whatever he might have found.
    "Tell him I've got zorch."
    "Lie to that old man? He hasn't got long to live, you know."
    "What's wrong with him?"
    "I should ask? But he told me he didn't have too long left, and how he'd go to his grave happy if he could see the Lilitongue of Gefreda or the Compendium of Srem before he died."
    "Well, I can't help him with the Lilitongue—no one can—and as for the Compendium …" Jack shook his head. "Probably best if I keep that under wraps."
    "From an old and fading man you're hiding it? Isn't he the one who put you on to the Compendium ? As I recall, if you hadn't found it, you never would have known how to—"
    Jack held up his hand. "Point taken." He scratched his jaw. "You think he can keep his mouth shut?"
    "Like a clam, he'll be. Like a stone. He just wants to see it, touch it maybe. This is for him, not for posterity."
    Jack considered. He did owe the old man…
    "All right then. Maybe I'll drop in on him this afternoon and let him have a peek."
    Abe clapped his pudgy hands and grinned.
    "Excellent. This is a mitzvah you do. You won't regret it."
    Jack hated when people said that.

4

    Jack stepped into his apartment and sniffed. The air carried a musty tang. Not all that unusual after being closed up for a while. The old wood and old varnish on his Victorian wavy oak furniture gave off subtle but pleasant odors. The must came from the other junk arrayed on the walls—treasure in his eyes, though most other people would consider it junk. Or maybe junque .
    He jammed his finger into the soil in the pink Shmoo planter as he passed. Nothing stuck. The little ivy plant was thirsty. Had to remember to add water before he left. He glanced at the framed official membership certificates in The Shadow and Doc Savage fan clubs and straightened the Don Winslow Creed on his way to the oak secretary.
    Once there, he angled it out from the wall and removed its rear panel. An array of pistols adorned the top, side, and rear walls of the hidden space within. A rolled-up ten-by-twelve-inch flap of skin lay to the left, next to the Compendium of Srem . A Ruger SuperRedhawk chambered for .454 Casulls rested atop that.
    Jack slipped the book free. Big and heavy, its covers and spine made of some sort of stamped metal.
    With the secretary closed and returned to its original position, he placed the Compendium on the paw-foot oak table but did not open it. Something about the way the characters blurred and swam for an instant whenever he peeked inside made him queasy.
    Instead he pulled his Tracfone from a pocket along with a slip of paper. He dialed the number Christy P. had left. She picked up on the third ring.
    "Yes?"
    "Christy? This is Jack. You left this number on my Web site."
    A pause, then, "Oh, yes. Repairman Jack." Her tone was hesitant. "Interesting name. Did your mother pick it?"
    "No, and neither did I. But it gets the job done. You mentioned something about your daughter and a mistake?"
    "I think I'm having second thoughts about hiring someone for this via the Internet."
    Smart lady.
    "Consider having third and fourth thoughts while you're at it. But my site isn't the sort people find by accident. Someone must have sent you. Who?"
    "Jeff Levinson. You know the name?"
    "I do."
    Jack had hired on a few